Flos Vita
by Saphura
Summary: Sometimes a silent and small message is the loudest of all. Post-Reichenbach.


Hello! I can't think of anything witty to say here, so I won't. I think we all know I don't own any of these characters and stuff. Please review after reading!

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><p>The cemetery was quiet. The sound of cars passing on the road was quiet enough that it could be mistaken for wind in the trees. However, the one living soul that walked along the rows of stone monuments to the dead could easily tell the difference between the light wind and the speeding cars. Unlike his brother, however, Mycroft Holmes could not have told you the number of cars, speed, and direction each was traveling.<p>

That was because his brother, his annoying little brother, was the reason he came to this cemetery. Mycroft sighed, looking at his brother's final resting place for the first time in a few weeks. It was a nice enough plot, off to the side next to a tree. A couple bunches of flowers lay on the ground, mementos of those who had come before him to pay their respects.

'It suits him somehow,' Mycroft mused sadly. 'Quiet, private… oh what am I saying…?'

Mycroft Holmes turned away, but he could still see that blasted black stone with the white letters; it appeared wherever he looked. The stone should not exist, it _could _not exist, but it did. The stone and the name on it were there in front of him; mocking him and the world of the loss of the man below it.

The tombstone he used to joke about with the man who was now six feet below it. The tombstone that sealed away his only brother:

"_Sherlock."_

Words were quick to leave Mycroft, and slow to return. Finally, he looked back at the name on the black stone. "Hello, Sherlock," he said again. "I… I never expected to be doing this. We used to joke your curiosity would get you killed but…"

The words caught in Mycroft's throat. What was he saying? Curiosity hadn't killed his brother, something else did. Sherlock always hated to admit he was wrong, but kill himself? The papers and tabloids were still having a field day, two months after the fact. As far as Mycroft knew, John Watson was still holed up somewhere, hiding from the flashing bulbs and prying questions that still had a tendency to attack him when he stepped outside, reliving those final moments of watching Sherlock drop from the roof and hit the ground every night. His only companion in his nightmares was a purple hyacinth, which had mysteriously shown up on his doorstep two weeks after Sherlock's death. There was no note with it, and John just didn't have the heart to get rid of the plant.

Mrs. Hudson was also a bit of a wreck, refusing to let anyone into the flat at 221b Baker St., even the police who wanted to try and find something, anything, that could prove all doubts about Sherlock wrong (they eventually got in with a warrant). A few people still believed he was not a fraud, but their voices were not heard above the cries that denounced Sherlock's name.

Mycroft had served no better. His work suffered to the point that he was forced to take a week's leave by his superiors. The death of Sherlock had shaken his brother to the very core, left his best friend in pieces, and his landlady and several more grasping at the threads that were left of their belief in him.

"Why, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Why? You're not like this, you would never… you must have had a reason, you… you…!"

Tears started fall from Mycroft's eyes. "There has to be a reason, there has to be!" he cried. "Damn it, Sherlock, all of those things I said… I've done… I'll never get the chance now, you took that away from me, you bloody…! You want to hear it now? I'm sorry!" Mycroft was almost sobbing. "I'm sorry! For _everything_ you insufferable little… damn it, WHY Sherlock?"

Mycroft's knees hit the ground before the flower in his hand did. He may have hated his little brother at times, but never in a million, no a _billion_ years did he ever wish for this. How did Jim Moriarty drive Sherlock Holmes to suicide? It did not make sense, no sense at all. There must be another reason. Mycroft cried out in frustration, anger, and sadness. He could not think of that reason, unless…

Had Sherlock really changed that much? Enough that he would sacrifice himself? The very thought was almost as amazing as the one that Sherlock would commit suicide in the first place.

He looked down at the flower that he had brought with him. It was a single, deep crimson rose, fresh compared to the days old flowers that had been placed by other visitors. Mycroft picked it up, and placed it against the black stone where it stood out like a brilliant blood red ruby on a black background.

Sherlock would understand the message in the gesture. Somewhere, he would understand that even his brother mourned his loss.

"I guess you're not going to tell me," Mycroft said quietly. "Good-bye, Sherlock. I just wish…"

A few bits of purple caught his eye. Reaching down, Mycroft picked up the stem of small flowers. They were fresh with little sign of withering, indicating they had been placed within the last day. He looked down at the grave stone. The withered remains of the same small purple flowers were scattered about.

"Lucerne," Mycroft muttered. "Why would someone…?"

Then it hit him: the same reason he was leaving the rose. The same reason others had left flowers here as well. Mycroft looked around. The lucerne was all around the grave, not just in front of the stone. The reason was similar, but with a different purpose. The flowers were silent messages to Sherlock, symbols given by the living to the dead. But the lucerne was not meant for Sherlock, it was meant for the living visitors. If they were keen enough to understand.

In the language of flowers, lucerne meant _life_.

Mycroft broke off a piece of the lucerne and placed it in his lapel. He smiled through his tears as he looked around. The lucerne was the same as John's hyacinth: a message from the "dead".

"See you around, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He shook his head. "Damn it… you have a lot to answer for…"

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><p>I've always thought the idea of the language of flowers is kind of cool. And maybe it seems a little weird, but it's a secret code of sorts, of course the Holmes boys would know it. If you were wondering, a deep crimson rose means "mourning", and a purple hyacinth means "I'm sorry, please forgive me; sorrow". At least, that's what the website said. Lucerne is also known as alfalfa.<p>

I am not a flower nut, but it just seemed to fit here in this story.


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